


A Boy Named Lucky

by LadyDrace



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Fear, Happy Ending, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, POV Hank Anderson, Psychological Trauma, Sex Slave Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Sex Worker Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Undercover, Undercover Missions, aged-down characters, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27508150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace/pseuds/LadyDrace
Summary: Hank is undercover as a crime boss to take down another crime boss.Said crime boss gives him a present for a week.A beautiful boy named Lucky.Fuck.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 33
Kudos: 186





	A Boy Named Lucky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RalphTime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RalphTime/gifts).



> This is a birthday present for Ralph, because I was dumb enough to mention the idea to them, even though I KNEW this would make them lovingly bully me into writing it. But joke's on you, because I made it fluffy by the end! SUFFER!
> 
> And also have a wonderful birthday, son! <3 <3 <3
> 
> Not betaed, but given a few good editing sessions.
> 
> Also, the "aged down" characters tag is for Hank (I put him earlier in his career to make it more likely for him to do an undercover gig like this) and also in part Connor because I definitely make him appear younger than he's supposed to appear in game.

“So, Mr. Buford. We got a deal?” Hank asks, tapping his finger on the table, putting up a perfect mask of hardened criminal who’s not used to be kept waiting. Jeffrey’s making a good show next to him as well, making twitchy movements next to his empty gun holster.

The slimy, gaunt shithead running the joint makes as if to consider it further, even though they’ve been negotiating for two weeks, and making friends and building backstories for this very moment for a good six months now. It’s a long game, but it’ll be so very worth it just to see this creep behind bars for life once they’re done. And, if all goes well, they’ll be done soon.

“Well,” Buford says with a disturbing smirk. “Yes, but before we… shake on it, as they say, I have a few things to prepare. What you’re asking for won’t exactly fit in an envelope, Mr. Farrier, you understand.”

“I hope you don’t usually make business with people _that_ stupid,” Jeffrey says, and Hank waves a calming hand at him.

“We’re aware,” Hank says, making his voice as cold and dark as he can. Which isn’t hard, this prick is really testing his patience. “We’re still ready to deal. Cash on delivery.”

“I love your enthusiasm, Gentlemen, but, I, for one, prefer to not seal any deals until everything is ready. I wouldn’t want to face a supply chain issue and be stuck holding a bad deal.”

That’s an annoyingly good point.

“Fine. How long do you need?”

“Three to five days. Perhaps as long as week. Shipping lanes can get… crowded,” Buford says, which Hank correctly deduces to mean that there are coastguard patrols to dodge.

Hank sighs a sigh of the deeply inconvenienced, and gets to his feet. “We’re done here. If, as you say, you won’t deal until you have the merchandise, then I suggest you call me next time you have a random shipment no one else wants.”

He’s pushing, and it certainly produces results. But not the one he was hoping for.

“Now, Gentlemen, please, no need to rush off! We’re all friends here,” Buford says, and Hank gets a few seconds of hope that they can seal the deal now anyway, before it all comes crashing down. “And, since we’re friends, I hope you don’t mind me speaking bluntly. I’m the only one in this half of the states who can get you what you need in the quantities you want. I am, however, not unwilling to – shall we say – sweeten to pot a little bit. As a token of my willingness to deal.”

“I’m listening,” Hank says, sitting back down with dread settling in his gut. Because what other evil shit does this guy dabble in? If they can nail him on it, though, all the better.

Buford leans back in his chair and addresses one of his people. “Bertie, would you mind sending in Lucky?”

“ _Lucky?_ ” Jeffrey asks. “What, you’re selling puppies too?”

“Not quite. Though I’m sure he’s willing to play fetch, if that’s what you’re into.”

Oh no. Oh _hell no_ , Hank screams silently to himself as the door opens behind Buford, and a barely dressed young man comes in. _Boy_ , really. Very young, very beautiful, and moving sinuously with the sureness of an experienced sex worker, never taking his eyes off Hank for one second.

Shit, this has red alert sirens going off all over the place.

So Buford deals in prostitution, and likely also human trafficking if Hank’s horrified assessment of this boy’s age is correct. If he’s eighteen he can’t possibly be more than a day over. And his otherwise alert eyes already have a deadness to them, an expression Hank has seen far too often on prostitutes _decades_ older than this actual child.

Hank swallows down vomit, and Buford smirks. “I knew you’d like him.”

Fuck. Now Hank accidentally made it look like he was drooling over this poor boy. They’re in it now. If he refuses, it’ll look very suspicious. And they need this to work.

“Joe, you sure this is a good idea?” Jeffrey asks, trying to give Hank an out, but it’s too late. If Hank declines, either Buford will get suspicious or – at the very least – start to wonder about a few things.

Hank gives Jeffrey a quick look, meant to convey that they’ve gotta do this, and Jeffrey gets it. Backs down like the meek henchman he’s playing, and lets Hank continue. “That’s a mighty kind offer, Mr. Buford. He can wait in my car.”

“Excellent! You can keep him, free of charge, until the merchandise arrives,” Buford says with a simpering smile, and waves his hand at Bertie, who leads the poor boy out of the room. “I can assure you, Lucky never disappoints. Anything you like, he can deliver.”

“You sure?” Hank can’t help but ask. “Looks like a gust of wind can knock him down.”

“Feel free to fatten him up during your time with him, if that’s what you’re into. He’s yours to do with as you please. And I hope that settles any doubt about my honest intentions?”

“Alright,” Hank says, already dreading the next few days. “I’ll be waiting by the phone.”

“I’m sure you’ll be too… preoccupied,” Buford says, and Hank has never wanted to commit murder so badly in his entire life.

They leave, pick up their guns from the bouncer, and make another little show out of chatting in the front room of the private bar. “Get me a hotel room,” Hank says, well aware that the walls have ears. “Don’t want that little twink anywhere near my house.”

“Sure thing,” Jeffrey says with a nod, and his eyes tell Hank everything. _Don’t mess this up_.

Everything is now riding on how well Hank can pretend to be a ruthless ring leader for several days. He’s been doing it for months, but only rarely has he been forced to keep up the act around the clock.

It’s gonna be a rough week.

The kicker is that Hank is gonna have to deal with this problem mostly on his own. Jeffrey is the higher ranking of the two, and thus has responsibilities at the DPD. So Hank will be pretty much solely responsible for this… situation.

And he can’t just get a nice hotel room and have the boy stay there under house arrest, being pampered and given a week off from the nightmare his life must be, because there’s not a single chance in hell that the boy won’t report back to Buford the minute he’s able. And if they don’t give him _something_ to report, they risk Buford calling the whole thing off.

So Hank will have to put on a show, enough so that whatever the kid reports it’ll look right to his slimy-ass boss.

Heading to the car, Hank swallows down another urge to vomit at the thought of having to possibly pretend to enjoy that poor boy putting the moves on him, but thank heaven for small favors, the kid’s just sitting there in the back seat, now wearing a jacket over his previously bare chest. He’s still only in fairly short shorts and slip on shoes, but at least now he won’t look any worse to onlookers than any other teen boy so deep in puberty that the freezing cold just doesn’t register.

And, even better, he doesn’t move in Hank’s direction at all when he slides into the back. Ben is at the wheel, and Jeffrey gets in next to him.

“Who’s the new face?” Ben asks, and Jeffrey just tells him where to go with no frills. Which is code for “ _will explain later._ ”

Walking the tightrope of DPD budget and maintaining the cover as a crime boss, they pick a mid-range hotel and get one of the nicer rooms. Jeffrey has to go back to the station to report on this latest unfortunate development, and Hank was supposed to do paperwork, but he’s not likely to be able to do that with this disturbingly observant sex shop mannequin’s constant laser eyes on him.

Whether he’s as accomplished at pleasing people as Buford claims Hank hopes he never finds out. But the kid sure wouldn’t know the word _subtle_ , even if it slapped him in the face.

His eyes follow Hank around the room as he drops his coat on the bed and slides his briefcase under it. It’s full of cash, and Hank fully expects the kid to at least _try_ and steal from it at some point. But if he does manage to get into it they all have bigger problems than having to keep up appearances for a barely legal hooker, considering the very expensive and high tech lock keeping the DPD’s resources safe.

Just in case, though…

“Touch my stuff and you’re dead. Got it?” Hank says without looking at the kid, still just standing right inside the door where Hank left him.

“Got it,” he says, voice soft and a little husky, in a way that makes Hank’s skin crawl. No kid should ever talk like that.

Hank finally looks at him, and then rolls his eyes. “Sit the fuck down like a normal person.”

The kid – Lucky – looks like the mere notion of him being _normal_ offends him to his core, but he does move slowly to the couch and sits down, leaning back into it in a calculated way that Hank hates to see. It’s a sensual slouch, legs lightly spread, arms out, neck tilted back.

Once again he has to swallow back vomit. Fuck, how is he gonna survive the next few days?

Turns out that ends up not being a problem for another few hours, because Jeffrey calls him and tells him to come in. The latest development does not sit well with the higher-ups, and Jeffrey needs Hank to back him up that they can wrap this up in a week. Of course he makes it sound over the phone like someone snitched on them, and Hank makes sure Lucky sees how he tucks knives and guns into various sheaths and holsters on his person before he leaves.

Not that it’s difficult, since the kid _never stops fucking staring_.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he says, before he remembers that he should really not be treating this little twink spy too nicely. So he gets in close, and holds one of his blades under Lucky’s chin, only a few inches away from touching the skin. “If I come back and find out you’ve been messing with anything? I’ll make you regret it.”

“Got it,” Lucky says again, as if those are the only words he knows. And that just makes Hank sad again. But he has to keep up the mask of cruel shithead, so he just turns around and leaves, feeling a heavy weight in his gut as he does.

It’s past midnight when he comes back to the room, tired and worn, and wishing really hard he didn’t have a sex worker-slash-child spy waiting for him. But them’s the breaks, and he’s just gotta deal.

The lights are still on when he comes in, and Lucky is exactly where Hank left him. But instead of his eyes being on Hank they’re closed, and the sensual lean has degraded into a boneless sprawl. Lucky is dead asleep, and Hank allows himself a deep breath of relief. No need to deal with anything right now. If he’s quiet, he can just go to bed and pretend everything is okay.

Except… can he really do that? What if the kid wakes up in the night and sees Hank has returned but hasn’t made any kind of move to get him to bed? Would that be a red flag? Or, worse, would he just hop in with Hank and wake him up with sex? Which, in any other scenario, would be one of Hank’s absolute favorite ways to wake up. Which means that he’d probably manage to get quite far in his sleepy, horny state before the horrifying realization of it involving _molesting a child_ would hit home.

No, Hank isn’t risking it. He has to do _something_.

His mind is made up when he realizes that there’s no sign of Lucky having moved even a single inch. Which means he hasn’t eaten in at least half a day.

That’s something Hank can fix while perfectly maintaining his persona, at least.

He calls for room service, and when the knock comes at the door, Lucky twitches awake, looking around adorably confused and mussed for a few seconds, before he wakes up properly, and the dead-eyed whore mask is back on.

Hank takes the tray to the dinner table, and slaps the seat next to him. “Sit. Eat,” he commands, and Lucky moves cautiously towards the table. He still moves like he’s on his way to a stripper pole, rather than a dinner table, but he’s clearly hungry, eyeing the food with poorly concealed interest.

It gives Hank a pretty good guess as to why horny old fuckers probably like this kid so much. As stereotypically porn-like as he is, there’s also a charming sort of openness to him. If he really is a spy he’s _shitty_ at it.

He sits down silently, and Hank plonks down a plate in front of him, piled high with various greasy foods. A deliberate choice, since, honestly, Lucky looks so thin it’s a little concerning. Not quite anorexic levels of thin, but it’s not far off, and Hank doesn’t like it. “Eat all of that, or you’ll break in half when I’m not looking,” he grumbles, tucking into his own plate.

Lucky stares at him for another second, and then starts eating slowly and carefully, eyes not leaving Hank the entire time. He’s not even half way done when Hank puts down his fork. Lucky does the same, but Hank points a stern finger at him. “What did I just say?”

Without a peep, Lucky picks his fork back up, and goes back to eating with more gusto, actually letting his eyes see the food, rather than staying dutifully on Hank. A relief, to be quite honest.

Hank would really like a shower before bed. He usually tends to have one, if nothing else to at least try and rinse the douchebag persona off of himself. But he’ll be wearing it for a while now, and he figures that maybe if he stinks it’ll be easier keeping his guest from taking any... unwelcome initiative. So he just drops his weapons in a pile on the coffee table – except the one knife that goes under his pillow – steps out of his jeans and takes off his over-shirt.

Lucky’s eyes stay on his food, but Hank can tell from the way he tenses under his light jacket that he’s well aware of what’s going on behind him. Hank wishes so deeply that he could avoid scaring the kid, but right now it’s his only choice.

Only, just before he gets into bed he realizes there’s a major problem he somehow completely missed.

_There’s only one bed._

He could, of course, banish the kid to the couch, but that would definitely come off as fishy. He’ll need to come up with a plausible excuse, and he’s rapidly building up a nervous sweat as he slides between the sheets. Shit, how the _fuck_ is he supposed to pull this off?

Lucky finishes eating, puts down his fork, and then takes a moment, clearly gathering himself, before getting up from the table, slowly sliding down the zipper of his jacket, and slipping out of his clothes like they’re liquid, dripping off his skin.

He strips naked as a matter of course, and, god, in any other situation Hank would have really appreciated this sort of approach. He’s always loved direct come-ons with no questions asked. Hell, his last relationship started because a stranger basically humped him at a bar, making their interest clear as day, and took it to the bathroom in a matter of minutes.

If only this time it hadn’t involved a person so disgustingly young.

As young as Lucky is, however, he’s fully developed, hair in all the right places, cock full and soft against his thigh. A _strong_ thigh, by the look of it, and Hank deliberately doesn’t give the implications of this too much thought.

He does _look_ , however. Doesn’t think he can get away with not. After all, he started this himself by being a weakling who couldn’t keep his stomach from turning. He deserves this. It’s his punishment.

So he lets his eyes linger on all the places Lucky shows him, follows every sinuous movement as the kid comes to bed, sliding in next to Hank silently, leaving the covers only barely covering his hips. His eyes are still firmly on Hank, and it’s torture. The sheer dead, hopelessness in them breaks Hank’s heart, and he couldn’t get it up even if he really gave it his all.

And that’s when inspiration strikes. He’ll have to put on a show, but, if he plays his cards right, this could be his way out. _Please, please, let this play out right_ , he begs the universe, and pulls Lucky in with an arm. The kid makes a small noise of surprise, and then smiles the kind of smile only people who want to sell you something ever use. A smile that says _this special offer is only for you_ , even though you and the entire world knows the lie.

  
“Well?” Hank prompts. “I was told you were the best. Show me your best, then.”

He steels himself for the absolute worst, and swallows when Lucky’s hands find his chest, sliding warm and sure across the fabric of his undershirt. “Tell me what you like, and I can make it happen,” Lucky purrs, and Hank swallows down vomit again.

“I like people doing what I tell them, instead of asking questions,” he growls, and, to his relief, Lucky takes it at face value, and moves his hands lower.

It hasn’t been all that long since Hank’s last relationship ended. It was amicable, and they even hooked up a few times since, both of them aware that it was for old times sake more than anything else, so the risk of even the smallest reaction from Hank’s lower half is minute. He barely even has a dry spell to speak of. And while Lucky does have decently sized hands that don’t feel like they belong to a barely legal teenager, that doesn’t change circumstances one single bit. Despite what sure feels like some distressingly expert handling, Hank’s cock remains deeply unimpressed.

Touching on top of the fabric does nothing, and, inevitably, Lucky slides one of his talented hands down the waistband to take hold of Hank’s cock. It’s not unpleasant in a physical sense. Lucky is gentle, and clearly knows his way around the place, smoothly fondling the shaft, the head, and trying his luck with the balls for a second. All to no avail.

He rubs his cheek gently on Hank’s chest, letting his nose drag across a clothed nipple, and Hank will say this for the kid; he sure does seem to have an instinct for what gets people going. At any other time, Hank would be sporting high beams right now and begging for attention. But, for right now, even a playful little nip from Lucky’s sweet lips does absolutely nothing.

Lucky’s brow furrows more and more with worry the longer he fondles and nibbles with zero reaction, and Hank decides to use his disgust to his advantage, letting Lucky see how he winces and gets upset, but leaving the kid to come to his own conclusions. Now if only his conclusions are the _right_ ones.

“Fuck,” Hank curses, anger in his voice, and Lucky’s hands slowly pull away.

“Are you… do you not… I mean… do you by any chance suffer from-”

And those are the magic words. Hank’s knife is out from under the pillow in the blink of an eye, the point of it touching Lucky’s tender neck.

“You breathe a word of this to anyone,” Hank snarls, fury in his voice, “I’m gonna cut you a new smile, ear to ear, and send you back to your boss in a _bag_. Got it?”

“Got it,” Lucky whispers, frozen like a spooked deer, brown eyes wide and hands out of the way. It could not have gone down any more smoothly. “I’ll… sleep on the couch?”

“Seems like you should.” Hank keeps his voice cold and his knife out, as Lucky leaves the bed ever so slowly, treating the knife in front of him with a completely rational amount of fear. If only Hank didn’t have to scare the daylights out of the kid, but it seems like the only way this is gonna work.

He waits until Lucky is safely under the blanket on the couch and the lights are out, before heaving a silent sigh of relief, and having himself a quiet shudder. Fuck, that was unpleasant. Would have been unpleasant with any sex worker doing this against their will, but one this young really gets all of Hank’s most disgusted alarm bells ringing.

It takes hours before he can properly shake it off and go to sleep.

He keeps a hand on his knife. Just to make sure Lucky doesn’t get any ideas during the night.

\- - -

The next morning Hank takes a long shower, making sure to give Lucky ample opportunity to report back with the news that sex won’t be a way in. No doubt after last night he’ll feel the need to spill the beans immediately. Hank can only hope to god that his ruse was good enough.

Once he’s out of the shower, shamelessly getting dressed as if Lucky isn’t there, he looks around for subtle signs of the kid having made a report. He uses the room phone to call for breakfast, and checks the call history. Nothing. No signs of him even having moved from the couch since he woke up.

Maybe he scared the kid too much last night.

That seems to be a valid theory, because for the next few hours Lucky does absolutely nothing without Hank telling him to. Hell, he doesn’t even use the bathroom until Hank sends him there for a shower. It makes Hank feel even worse, but he struggles to think what he could have done differently.

He decides to take the bull by the horns, and treat this kid like a human being. That might be a warning light in itself, but if he really is as unsubtle as he looks, maybe this is the right way to go.

“I gotta go check on some things,” he tells Lucky mid-morning. “Be back in a couple hours.”

Lucky just nods. “Got it,” he says quietly, and Hank has the thought that if one of his special talents are guilt tripping, then he may well _be_ the fucking best.

On his way to the door, Hank makes a show of pausing, then picking up the cordless room phone and handing it to Lucky. “Better call your boss and report in. Tell him things are going… _real well_. Right?”

Lucky’s eyes are wide and a little scared, and, if it’s an act, it’s _fucking flawless_. “Got it,” he whispers, and jesus, they really need to work on his vocabulary.

As Hank goes to do his various jobs, keeping up appearances and checking in on his dog with the sitter, a thought hits him, suddenly, straight to the gut. That maybe part of the reason Lucky is considered the best _isn’t_ that he’s an accomplished sex expert, but more the fact that – whatever his actual age – he looks and acts like a _fri_ _ghtened_ _child_. An empty and creepy child, but still.

Which is fucked up in its own right and makes Hank feel sick all over again.

But it all checks out. Lucky remains, so far, a blank slate, waiting for instructions, following them without question, and makes sure to present himself at all times like a willing sex doll.

A doll that never argues, looks pretty, and waits in the corner until you need it.

It’s sickening, but it makes sense. Most evil assholes don’t appreciate anything surprising, because the one thing you need in order to stay alive at the top is _control_.

His suspicions are only confirmed when he returns to the room, and Lucky is still just sitting there, phone on the coffee table in front of him. No TV on, nothing to read, blanket neatly folded up at the end of the couch he slept on. Hands in his – thankfully clothed now – lap. Just… empty.

The sexual stuff was bad enough, but this is somehow even worse.

Hank’s been a cop for more than fifteen years, working his way up the ranks, finally being picked for this undercover job after showing his merit as a detective on several hard cases. If all goes well, after this he may well make lieutenant. He wasn’t the sharpest in school, but he did well at the academy, and he also possesses a decent gut feeling about certain things, and so far it’s served him well.

And, right now, his gut feeling is telling him that he’s not dealing with a spy fronting as a hooker, as much as a scared kid doing whatever it takes to survive. And if that really is the case, then Hank wants to help him. More than anything.

But this case is so big even the most intense gut feeling isn’t worth betting it all on. Buford isn’t the only major dirtbag they’re hoping to take down with this sting. So Hank will have to tread carefully.

He figures that he can safely start by getting on the kid’s level some more. Which means sitting down in an armchair across from the couch, and meeting those big, staring eyes with his own. Hank keeps his gaze unflinching and calm, blinking slow and relaxed.

At first, Lucky tenses, clearly wondering what is expected of him. But, after a few, weird minutes, his brow furrows, and he starts searching Hank’s face for clues, rather than just holding his gaze as if stopping would bring some kind of punishment.

Hank keeps his face relaxed, letting the kid look, and does some looking of his own. And the more he looks, the more he starts to wonder about this kid’s age. Lucky _is_ clearly young, there’s no doubt about it. But rather than being somewhere between fifteen and eighteen, the more Hank looks at him, the more it seems likely that he’s actually early twenties. He’s too skinny, skittish and just coltish enough in the limbs still to give off a very definite vibe of youth. The kind of youth you can very easily _destroy_.  
  


He’s willing to bet that kind of thing is very popular with scum of the earth.

Eventually, Lucky seems to end up at a complete loss as to how to proceed, and, after squirming for a minute, finally puts words to his thoughts. “Can I… do anything for you?”

“Why are you here?” Hank asks directly, because that’s an honest enough question that might also just reveal something about Lucky, depending on his answer.

Lucky blinks, clearly taken aback. “I’m… here to do whatever you want.”

“Sure, but why?”

Another blink and pause. “To… please you?”

“ _Why?_ ” Hank presses, because the further this goes, the more convinced Hank becomes that Lucky has barely the slightest clue of the enormity of the game he’s involved in.

Lucky eventually just offers a shrug. “Mr. Buford often sends me out like this. Because I’m good at it, and I make his… _associates_ … happy.”

“What happens if you don’t? Succeed, I mean, in making people happy.”  
  
For a second, Lucky actually looks vaguely proud. “That has never happened.” Then he deflates slightly. “Until now, anyway.” He looks down. “Mr. Buford won’t be pleased.”

So, presumably, Lucky followed Hank’s order and either pulled a fast one on Buford or just neglected to bring up any issue in particular. Or maybe he disobeyed and didn’t call Buford at all. God, this kid is really baking Hank’s noodle something fierce.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Hank mutters, and Lucky’s eyes snap back to his.

“Really?”

“Do you think I want anyone to know that I’m a limp-dicked fuck-up? No one would do business with me again.” He reaches across the coffee table, holding his hand out. “Shake on it?”

Lucky eyes the hand nervously. “I… I shouldn’t lie to Mr. Buford.”

“Who said anything about lying?” Hank says, gambling a little. “We just… won’t mention it if _he_ doesn’t.”

Another few seconds pass, Lucky biting his lip and clearly thinking hard, before he cautiously reaches out to take Hank’s hand. “Deal,” he says softly, and Hank gives their hands a single shake.

“Deal.”  
  
\- - -

The next day and a half is weird as hell.

Hank waits by the phone, and gets a fat load of nothing. Lucky finally unclenches a little bit more, after another night on the couch and zero physical contact or berating from Hank. The kid bounces back easy, apparently. Which would be promising for his future, but it all depends on what circumstances he ends up in once he out of Buford’s clutches.

If it’s the wrong ones? Hank has no doubt that things are gonna get really bad in a lot of ways.

For now, though, Lucky seems content enough to eat cereal on the couch and absorb television like it’s water and he’s a desert. It makes Hank feel genuinely happy for the first time in months.

But it’s still early days, and he’s got nothing else to do while waiting for news from either Buford or Jeffrey, so, eventually, Hank can’t think of anything else to do than make friends a little. Very, very gently, obviously. But if he can offer just a little more happiness for this damaged young man, then Hank will jump at the chance.

“What are we watching?” he asks, dumping himself onto the opposite end of the couch from Lucky. His hand stops digging dry Lucky Charms out of the box, but after a glance at Hank – likely to confirm that there’s no threat – he goes back for his next handful.  
  
“It’s some kind of… funny show.”  
  
Hank watches silently for a few minutes, and eventually recognizes it as a popular sitcom he never cared much about. Lucky seems enthralled but not the least bit amused, and Hank can’t decide if that means he’s unused to expressing emotions or just unused to TV in general and finds it all fascinating. He’s inclined to believe the latter. Not least of all because while Lucky _is_ fairly subtle in some ways, all of his emotions are right there on his face if you care to look. And Hank has had nothing else to do for at least a day.

“Mind if I change the channel?” Hank asks, and Lucky looks at him like he’s a complete weirdo for asking a polite question. Which is warranted, all things considered. But Hank makes a point of waiting for an answer, and eventually Lucky nods.

“Sure.”

“Cool, thanks.” Hank switches over to a basketball game, and Lucky seems exactly as enthralled as before, still shoveling the ironic choice of snack into his face. Hank had bought some random shit on his last outing, and the Lucky Charms had been a joke. But upon having them dumped in his lap and told to _“knock yourself out,”_ Lucky had looked like Christmas had come early, and Hank is already prepared to make it his mission the next few days to get a few more decent meals into the kid.

Shouldn’t be too hard. Once he realized it was what Hank wanted, Lucky stopped trying to look like a composed and dainty courtesan, and instead leaned into his barely repressed urge to wolf down food at a terrifying pace.

It speaks of a _bad_ childhood, no doubt, and Hank will fight it every way he can, without compromising himself.

Speaking of which…

“Mind if I ask you something?” Hank asks, well aware that Lucky probably either doesn’t possess the capacity to refuse, or feels like he’s in any position to do so, but it’s what they’ve got to work with at the moment.

“Of course,” Lucky says pleasantly, but he stops his snacking again, clearly on edge.

“How old are you, really?”

He’s expecting some kind of brushoff. Deflection or a flat out lie to protect himself. What he gets is… something else.

Lucky shrugs, as if it’s not important. “I’m not sure. The orphanage didn’t tell me much. My birthday is March fourth, but I don’t know what year I was born.”

Hank could probably find out. Most orphanages have decent enough records, but there’s still the problem of “Lucky” likely not being his real name. It definitely sounds like a stripper name, and Hank isn’t about to push on that one. It might be the only real means of protection Lucky has at his disposal, and Hank’s not about to ruin that.

“I’m-” Lucky starts after a pause, and Hank holds his breath waiting for what might come out. “I’m Mr. Buford’s oldest boy. Now. There were others. They went away and never came back.”

Hank’s gut sinks. “Do you know where they went?”

“No. I asked once. Mr. Buford said that Danny was going to a new home.” There’s another pause as he chews his way slowly through another handful of cereal, but clearly there’s more on his mind. His eyes are turned towards the TV, but he’s not watching anymore. “Do you… do you think Danny went to a place like this? To… a nice man?”

The question makes Hank shake his head in pure grief for everything that question encompasses, and decides not to take the bait. It feels like an honest answer would not help Lucky’s mental state one bit. So he deflects instead.  
  
“I’m not a nice man.”

“Perhaps not. But so far you’re the _kindest_ I’ve met. Other men were… nice enough. The things they wanted were not unpleasant. Wear these clothes. Eat these things this way. Talk like this. Play pretend you’re someone else. Some of them never even touched me.” There’s a _“but”_ coming up, and Hank dreads it. Though – it turns out – there’s a surprise there too.

“But they were never _kind_. You touched me, but only to protect yourself. I don’t blame you.”  
  
“I wouldn’t call putting a knife to your neck a _kindness_ ,” Hank points out, but Lucky actually huffs out a small laugh.

“The fact that you’re even saying that? Kinda proves my point.”

Shit, the kid is sharp, too. Hank’s gonna have to really watch his step.

“Hmph,” Hank grumbles, keeping his eyes on the TV. “Look, kid. In a world like this? It’s kill or be killed. There’s not a lotta room for kindness.”

“You think I don’t know?” There’s definite bite in Lucky’s voice now, which is new, and Hank only has to cast a quick glance at him to see how his jaw ticks and his shoulders tense.

“No, I think you do. I’m just sayin’ that just because someone doesn’t treat you like shit for five minutes doesn’t mean they won’t turn around and fuck you up next time it suits them. You shouldn’t assume too much about me.” Hank’s already said way more than he means to. All he can hope for now is that Lucky will take the threat for what it is, and stop looking too closely.

\- - -

Day four dawns with a bit of a shock. Lucky wakes up on the couch with a heart-wrenching scream, and immediately runs to the bathroom to throw up. Doesn’t even close the door behind him as he waves goodbye to several of the nice meals Hank’s been providing him with.

Hank is left in bed, clutching his knife in one hand and his heart in the other. Fuck, the kid had a _nightmare_. It’s barely four am.

Once his heart is back to a more normal pace, Hank puts the knife back under his pillow, and debates getting up. He sure as hell won’t be able to sleep anymore after this.

The choice is made for him when Lucky’s retching is slowly replaced by sobs, and, fuck, Hank should stay a million miles away, but he _can’t_.

“I’m sorry,” Lucky tells the toilet bowl when he hears Hank behind him, and clearly tries to stop his crying. For a moment Hank just stands there in the doorway, torn. But then he decides that he can at least offer some cautious support.

So he sits down on the floor a couple of feet behind Lucky’s trembling back, and ignores how his knees pop as he does. “Don’t apologize. Nightmares are a part of this world,” he says quietly, scooting up against the wall, and Lucky sobs again.

“What else is there?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You keep saying _this world_ ,” Lucky says wetly, yanking some toilet paper off the roll to wipe his face. “As if there’s another one.”

Well shit. Hank’s just gone and stepped in it now. But at least he’s quick to wing it.

“There is. It’s for normal people. People with normal jobs and normal families. People who don’t know what it’s like to not know if you’ll be alive tomorrow. The people in TV commercials whose biggest concerns are how they look to their neighbors. I’m pretty fucking sure those people don’t wake up from nightmares on a regular basis.”

Lucky blows his nose and wipes his face a few more times, flushing it all down before slumping back to sit on his calves, head hanging between his shoulders. “I think I’d like that. A life like that. Like in those commercials.”

Hank nods. “Hm. Yeah. Guess that’s how they sell us shit. Basically tellin’ you that this brand of orange juice is all you need to have that… normalcy.”

“You know,” Lucky says wetly. “I actually hate orange juice.” He hiccups out a weird mix between a laugh and a sob. “I hate it so much.”

Seeing as he’s being emotional already, it’s hard to tell, but Hank gets one of his gut feelings, and it’s telling him they’re not actually talking about the thing they’re talking about. He’s not a shrink, so he can’t say for sure what Lucky’s really saying right now. But he can at least back him up a bit.

“Orange juice is only good with booze in it,” he mutters, and is then immediately shocked into silence when Lucky turns around and slides right up to Hank, leaning against his side as if there’s nothing to fear. As if Hank doesn’t have several different lethal weapons within arm’s reach. As if Hank hasn’t already threatened the kid’s very life.

As if Hank is someone _safe_.

And that’s when it hits him. The realization _why_ exactly Lucky is so seemingly perfect for everyone he meets. He’s _terrifyingly_ good at getting people’s number. Sure, it had taken a day or so before he unwound around Hank, but, then again, he’d been expecting a vicious crime lord, and had gotten an undercover cop with a bleeding heart. But once he adjusted? It all just fell away.

God, Hank should have realized it after that first night. Lucky never called Buford, maybe never even planned to. Probably wasn’t ever truly afraid of Hank. But the deal to not tell Buford about Hank’s _little problem_? That’s where he just plain confirmed everything Lucky suspected about him, and it all went to hell.

So now here he is, on the floor of a mid-range hotel bathroom with a crying young man leaning on him, and he should push him away. He should be cruel and mean, and protect his identity as hard as fucking possible.

But this was never part of the job. He was supposed to deal with ruthless criminals, not a scared sex slave who’s too clever for his own good, and quite likely already suspects Hank isn’t who he says he is. Or, at the very least, that he’s not _how_ he says he is.

It’s too late. He’s in it now. _Fuck_.

Now sad and scared himself, Hank puts an arm around Lucky’s shaking shoulders, and rubs a little warmth into his shivering skin. “Don’t tell anybody about this. I got a reputation, you know?”

Lucky bursts out another little laugh, and then his crying slowly peters out. He leans on Hank for another handful of minutes, just tiredly tilted against his chest and shoulder, to the point where Hank wonders if he fell asleep. But, eventually, Lucky does stir again, and gets up to clean up at the sink. Hank manages to get to his feet with only a few creaking noises from his joints, and decides he might as well go back to bed. He won’t sleep after this, but the floor was cold, and the bed is warm, so it’s an easy choice.

He’s barely under the covers, however, when Lucky is there next to the bed.

Hank stares at him with all the disbelief he can muster, but it only takes one sad, pleading look, and all he can do is roll his eyes and invite the kid in.

_Christ._

Lucky wastes no time cuddling up to Hank again, falling asleep in what feels like seconds, and Hank is left staring at the ceiling and wondering if he’s just managed to undo months and months of hard work, and whether Jeffrey will take his goddamn badge once Buford and his pals fly the coop.

Next thing he knows there’s an awful sound, and he spends a confused minute trying to figure out what the fuck it is, until he comes around enough to realize that he fell asleep, and the noise is his phone. Or, rather, _Joe’s_ phone.

He paws at the bedside table until he can find it, and wakes up like he got a bucket of ice water to the face when he sees Buford’s number. And with that realization comes several others, all equal in their level of horror.

First of all, it’s mid morning, and Jeffrey is probably losing his mind because Hank hasn’t checked in yet. The bed is surprisingly comfy for a shitty hotel bed, not least of all because Lucky is doing a great impression of an octopus around Hank, and seems only just awake enough to frown at the noisemaker a few inches from his face. Hank’s arms somehow made it around Lucky as well during the night, and just as a double fuck you to everything Hank’s been working towards for the better part of his adult life, Lucky’s very obvious morning wood is mashed up against Hank’s thigh, he has one of his own to match, and he wants to _just die now, thanks_.

But he can’t because the phone is on the fifth ring now, and Hank _has to take it_.

“Fuck, hello?” he says, taking full advantage of how he feels like an actual piece of shit right now to convey to Buford how much he hates everything.

“Mr. Farrier.” God, that voice never gets less slimy. “I bring you excellent news. Your shipment is well underway, and should arrive tomorrow evening. If you don’t mind, I would appreciate concluding our business as soon as it arrives. I don’t exactly have a place to keep your merchandise for long.”

“Sounds good,” Hank says gruffly, trying to disguise the panic he’s feeling on several levels. “I’ll get everything ready. Text me the location when you got it.”  
  
“Of course.” There’s a pause, and Hank fears the worst. “I’m assuming that Lucky is performing to your… satisfaction?”

Hank would take that as some kind of test if Buford didn’t sound so disgustingly smug, but the question leaves him no less horrified. Especially since Lucky hears his name, and immediately tenses in Hank’s arms.

“Well,” Hank says, momentarily lost on what kind of lie to spout, and then loses every last one of his marbles when Lucky abruptly changes attitude, going lax and soft and cuddling in closer.

“ _Mmm_ ,” he sighs near the phone, rubbing Hank’s chest a little roughly, so there’s no way Buford can miss the rustle of fabric. “Is it morning, yet? I hope not,” he says, adding a blatant purr to his words that Buford can’t possibly miss. “Oh, are you on the phone? Sorry.” He lets out a sort of whisper-y laugh, as if he’s drunk or… _sex-drunk_ , and Hank is frankly amazed at his acting skill.

“Say no more,” Buford says, letting Hank off the hook just like that. “I’ll contact you soon with further details. Glad to hear you’re enjoying my gift. Good day!”

Buford hangs up, and Hank stares at the phone, and then at Lucky who’s pretty much lying on his chest now, in his efforts to get close to the phone.

There’s literally no way he’s not feeling Hank’s massive morning wood, and Hank really wishes he could turn back time or that someone would just come along and give him a mallet to the nuts, because this is every kind of wrong there is.

“Good morning,” Lucky says evenly, not acknowledging their mutual state at all, and Hank is left on a razor’s edge to respond.

“Morning. Thanks, uh… thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome.” There’s no significant inflection on any of the words, and Lucky just climbs off Hank and out of bed, disappearing into the bathroom without another word.

Hank is left in bed, phone in his hand and dick tenting the covers, and feeling like he deeply fucked something up, but he’s not sure what or how. Other than, you know, clearly outing himself as not having _any kind of erectile dysfunction whatsoever_.

Fuck.

The only good news is that Hank now suddenly has a lot of work to do. He makes sure the shower is running before calling Jeffrey and quietly giving him the news while also apologizing for his missed call-in. Jeffrey is all business and gets everything set up, ready to move out as soon as they have a location, and also offers to come over and watch Lucky for a while, so Hank can take care of his personal life for a few hours.

Not that he has much of one, but that’s besides the point.

The conversation with Jeffrey easily kills his boner, and by the time Lucky emerges from the steamy bathroom, looking adorably small in a hotel bathrobe, Hank is ready to forcibly ignore the whole thing, and even put on a good show of anger if Lucky presses the issue.

He doesn’t. He just sits down on the couch, turns on the TV, and ignores Hank. Which would be perfect, if not for the small detail of Hank not knowing if he just eroded every shred of that inadvisable trust in him that Lucky revealed last night. As a proven liar, now Hank is back to not knowing at all where Lucky stands. The act towards Buford would suggest that Lucky has picked a side, but considering just how good his acting was, Hank can’t be sure.

And the worst part is that there’s literally no way to know. He’ll just have to carry on and hope for the best.

Unless…

He silently apologizes to Jeffrey in his head, and gets out the wrinkled packet of cigarettes that holds the most dangerous part of his life right now. Taped to the inside, there it is, and he peels it off with bated breath.

It clinks as it skids across the coffee table, and Lucky stares at it with an unreadable expression.

Hank’s badge. Only the badge, no other credentials, because they can’t risk anyone getting his name or number should someone out him. But there was also never a plan for him just outing _himself_.

“I’m sorry,” Hank says, and Lucky nods.  
  
“I understand.”

He doesn’t look scared or even upset. Just tired. Maybe he knew already. God, not knowing what he’s thinking is killing Hank inside.

Sitting down on the couch with a good arm’s length between them, he gathers his hands between his knees, and tries to come up with something to say that won’t make him sound like a complete asshole. Nothing comes to mind.  
  
“I’m guessing this means you’re not going to kill him?”

“Kill who?” Hank asks, genuinely confused.

“Mr. Buford. I thought you were trying to make a move on him. To take over his business.”

Not a bad guess, overall, considering Hank mostly tried to just give off various shady vibes.

“No. But he’ll be in jail for life. Or until someone shanks him.”

Lucky says nothing in response, just keeps staring at Hank’s badge on the table as if it holds the answers to all of life’s questions.

“I, uh,” Hank mutters. “I didn’t mean to spring it on ya like this, but. I didn’t know what else to do. To explain.”

“You didn’t have to explain,” Lucky says, devoid of emotion, and it makes Hank’s heart hurt. The last thing he wanted was to give this poor young man yet more reasons to distrust the world around him.

Hank reaches out and gently touches Lucky’s shoulder, just to get his attention away from that goddamn badge. It works, and he slowly turns his head until Hank can catch his gaze. “I _did_ have to. This is dangerous. And if you suspected enough to take some kind of initiative you could get hurt. You could get caught in the middle and get yourself killed.”

“You’re right.”

The blunt statement catches Hank off guard.

“I _could_ have… taken initiative, as you say. I’ve been wanting to for a while. But I assume that if I did anything now you’d have to arrest me, too?”

“Only if you broke the law,” Hank points out, and feels his stomach sink with dawning horror when Lucky’s face finally starts showing emotion. And it’s not pretty.

He looks older, angrier and there’s a fire in his eyes Hank wouldn’t have thought possible the first time they’d met in that seedy back room.

“I want him dead,” Lucky whispers. “I dream about it at night. Of stabbing him in the heart. Of choking the life out of him. Poisoning him. Drowning him. Watching him burn to death, screaming. And then, when I wake up, I realize… that it was just a dream, and this world is still the fucking nightmare.”

Hank swallows down the acidic ball of anger and grief he feels on behalf of his damaged kid, and tries his best to be some kind of supportive, even though it’s not his area of expertise. “Well. The good news is that there’s not a single law against daydreaming of murder. I do it every day. But, I will say, you sure have more reason to than most. And… I don’t know if any of what I’m saying helps at all, but I can promise you this: if all goes well, Buford will rot in a supermax prison. He’ll never be able to hurt you ever again.”

“And if it doesn’t? Go well?”

This is where Hank should be realistic. Should be up front about worst case scenarios and the risks involved. But, god, he _can’t_. Not to someone like Lucky.

“Then I swear I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you don’t go back to him.”

He’s making the decision even as he’s saying it, and feels the truth of it to his bones. He can’t just sit back and watch Lucky go back to his life. Not now, not after he’s been given this enormous gift of trust on the basis of not much at all, not while there’s still a spark left in the kid. A will to live. Hank won’t be able to go on living himself with the knowledge that he was an accomplice in killing that last drop of _fight_ left in this precious boy.

Maybe Lucky can see it in his face, or maybe the words are enough. Whatever the case, the next second he’s lurching at Hank, and his surprisingly strong arms are squeezing so tight it’s hard to breathe.

“Thank you,” he breathes into Hank’s shirt, and all Hank can do is nod and hug back as hard as he can.

“I...” Lucky says quietly, voice wobbling. “Lucky isn’t my real name.”  
  
“I know, kid.”  
  
“He gave it to me. Said it was to remind me. That other kids had it way worse. That I should be grateful.”

Hank clutches the kid even tighter, wishing he could just hug away the years and years of hurt he’s endured.

“I’m… my real name is… it’s Connor,” he whispers, shaking in Hank’s arms, and if Hank didn’t feel a protective urge before, he sure as hell does now.

“Hank. I’m Hank.”

Connor lets out a shocked little laugh into Hank’s shoulder. “That suits you.”  
  
“Right back atcha, kid. You look like a Connor.” Hank immediately shakes his head at himself. “No, you know what, I have no idea what kinda name you look like. But it feels like the sort of crap you’re supposed to say.”

There’s another laugh against his shoulder, and then Connor pulls back enough to show Hank red-rimmed eyes and a timid smile. “I appreciate the honesty. Lieutenant?”  
  
“Sergeant. Hoping for a promotion after this.”

Connor nods, and then tiredly leans his head against Hank’s temple. “After this. There’s an _after_.”

“Yeah.”

“What about me? What’s going to happen to me after this?”

That’s the pickle right there. It would be so easy to just sell Connor the American dream of being able to make whatever life you want for yourself. But Hank can’t make himself do that. Especially not considering how Connor clearly already knows full well that the shit you see on TV is not for regular people. And is _really_ not for _damaged_ people.

Connor’s young, there’s still a chance he can bounce back. If only he ends up somewhere good with someone who can nurture the small spark left in him. But who the fuck knows where previous slaves go once they’re free?

“I don’t know. If you’re… well, _lucky_ you can go somewhere nice. Make a good life for yourself.”

“And… if I’m not?”

Hank sighs. “Well. You’ll be free either way,” he hedges, not sure what actual prospects someone like Connor might have.

“Free,” Connor sighs. “That sounds nice.”

“Yeah. It’s good,” Hank says, and lets Connor hang on him as long as he wants.

Turns out Connor wants to hang on Hank for most of the day. Clearly they’ve unleashed some sort of cuddle monster. Not that Hank can blame him. He can’t possibly imagine how touch starved or comfort-deprived Connor might be, and if using Hank as his personal teddy bear makes him feel at all better, Hank isn’t about to pull the plug on that.

He does feel a tiny stab of guilt about not checking in on his dog for a couple of days, but it’s a nice kennel with lots of doggy friends, and Sumo probably doesn’t miss him at all. He’s still a big puppy, after all, it’s good for him to have some other boisterous pups to play with.

The guilt must be slightly more pronounced than Hank realized, because he finds himself scrolling through the few pictures he has on Joe’s phone. There are no pictures of any people outside of the sting operation, but Hank figured a few dog photos wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

“Is that _your_ dog?” Connor asks suddenly, fully alert where he’s leaning on Hank’s shoulder again. He’d been breathing deeply a minute ago, half-napping after his emotional morning, but clearly he hadn’t been quite asleep.

“Yeah. His name’s Sumo.”

Connor makes grabby hands for the phone, and scrolls rapidly through the ten or so photos Hank has of Sumo. “He’s beautiful!” Connor says with the biggest smile Hank has seen on him yet, and he makes a mental note to himself to tell whoever’s gonna be handling Connor’s case that dogs might be a way to earn some easy brownie points.

“He’s a menace. Only listens to commands half the time. Slobbers on everything and sits on you if he likes you.”

From the look on Connor’s face you’d think that’s the best news he’s heard in years. “I love him. Can I meet him some day?”

“Sure,” Hank says, deliberately not thinking too hard on the fact that, most likely, he and Connor will never meet again after tomorrow night.

Speaking of which… he has no choice but to come clean to Jeffrey about outing himself. And it’s genuinely in the top three of most uncomfortable conversations he’s had, right up there with the one time his mom tried to give him _the talk_ several years too late, and the _it’s not you it’s me_ talk he had with his first crush.

_Yikes_.

“Hank,” Jeffrey groans over the phone. “Just… don’t fuck this up.”

“Not planning on it.”

“Good. I can’t even count how many lives and careers are riding on this.”

“I know.”

Jeffrey sighs. “What the fuck even possessed you- you know what, I don’t wanna know. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Hank grumbles, and he can feel the stink eye Jeffrey gives him from the other goddamn side of town.

“Don’t. Fuck. This. Up.” Jeffrey says, and then hangs up, just in case Hank somehow missed how ticked off he is.

Hank frowns at the phone. “Bye to you too, shithead.”

Connor makes a tiny snicker from the couch, and Hank rolls his eyes at him. But it does feel good right down to the bones to hear the kid laugh.

\- - -

Early the following morning Buford texts a location in the harbor to seal the deal after nightfall.

Connor is a ball of anxiety all day, going from eating anything that sits still long enough to not touching anything food _or_ drink related as the day goes on.

As for Hank, he spends the day going over the plan several times, as well as thinking up an extra little bit that, if all goes well, should prevent Connor from even seeing Buford again until he’s in cuffs.

“Hey,” Hank says, getting Connor’s attention away from the TV he’s pretending to watch. “We leave in an hour. All you gotta do is stay in my car. Best case? You won’t see or hear anything until I come and get ya. Worst case?” He hands Connor a paper bag with a small stack of cash, a burner phone and some addresses inside. “You take what’s in here and you use it.”

“How will I know?”

“Anyone tell you to run? You run. Got it?”

“Got it,” Connor says, the words now holding both more confidence and more fear than they ever did in those first couple of days.

By the time they’re getting ready to leave, Connor looks grim, but ready. Hank feels on edge, but also pretty confident. Everything is coming together the way it’s supposed to. Literally the only unknown right now is Connor, so unless Buford flips his lid completely for no obvious reason, he should be in cuffs within the hour.

In the car, Ben nods at Connor, having been brought up to speed, and once they pick up Jeffrey, it’s game time.

When they approach the harbor, and Hank spots the first masts against the darkening sky, he reaches for Connor. “We should probably make it look good, just in case someone’s looking,” Hank says, and Connor nods, changing right back to his hooker persona in the blink of an eye and abruptly making Hank feel sick again. But at least this time, when Connor scoots in close and puts a hand on Hank’s thigh, there’s a mutual understanding.

It was a good move too, because as soon as the car turns onto the pier, several of Buford’s men are there, directing them deeper into the area, where more and more of them are swarming. They’re dressed like harbor workers, but anyone with experience in law or the criminal underbelly will know they’re not. Especially since not a single one of them is doing anything remotely like _work_.

“Showtime,” Hank mutters, and Connor leaves bruises on his thigh, clutching hard before letting go.

Hank and Jeffrey get out of the car, leaving Ben and Connor inside.

Buford is waiting for them by his own car, leaning up against it casually, as if there isn’t an entire ship filled to the brim with illegal substances moored right next to him.

“Mr. Farrier. I trust you’ve had a pleasant week?”

“I’d say so. Thank you for the… distraction.”

Buford’s smirk makes Hank’s fist itch for a punching. But this isn’t the time.

“You’re so very welcome. If you don’t mind, I’d like to have Lucky back before we settle things. Wouldn’t want my property caught in the middle, should we have a disagreement.”

_Oh crap_.

“Are you expecting one?” Hank says with a frown.

“Not at all. But, one can never be too careful, you understand.”

Goddammit, they’re gonna have to play along. But maybe Hank can do some damage control. Jeffrey is about to go get Connor, but Hank stops him.

“Lemme go get ‘im. Wouldn’t wanna miss my chance to _say goodbye_.” He sends a smirk and a wink Buford’s way, and it seems to do the trick, because Buford waves him off with a chuckle.

The car is only barely out of hearing range, and definitely within visual range, so Hank’s gonna have to think fast. And also hope that Connor doesn’t freak out. They can _not_ piss off Buford.

Hank opens the car door, and finds Connor in the back seat, petrified with fear. Seems he’s been looking on after all.

“Come on,” Hank says, loud enough that the nearest thug can hear, and then follows it up with a whispered: “ _please, play along_.”

Connor nods, and then slides smoothly back into his sexy attitude, like slipping into a tailor made suit, and he exits the car fluidly.

Hank’s hand finds Connor’s cheek, and he leans in to whisper in his ear, making it look like a tender farewell between lovers. “He wants you back. But I won’t let him take you away. I swear, I won’t.”

Connor pulls away from Hank, his sad eyes at odds with the sensual smile on his face. “Don’t you dare risk anything to save me,” he begs. “Put him away. I’ll survive. I always have.”

Hank would argue, but Connor cuts him off the one way it’s impossible to escape from, by tilting his head up and capturing Hank’s lips in a slow, wet kiss. The kind of kiss you only give someone when you’ve already tasted them in every other way, and Hank hates it, hates that he has to play along, hates that this is the best thing Connor could have done to convince Buford that all is well. But, _god_ , more than anything Hank hates that this might well be the only marginally consensual kiss Connor has ever had, and he shouldn’t waste it on _Hank_.

With all of that in mind, Hank still gives it his all, kissing back as passionately as he can, giving Buford a real show. And Hank should feel sick, just as sick as he did that first night when Connor put the moves on him. But he doesn’t. Knowing who Connor is, knowing he’s _in there_ , that he’s not a child, that he’s ready to fight for his life, that he’s _real,_ makes all the difference.

Kissing Lucky would never have been acceptable to Hank in _any_ way. Kissing _Connor?_ Might just feel… okay.

But not like this. Never like this ever again.

Connor finally pulls away, making a good show of patting Hank’s chest in farewell, and then slides away from him with all the confidence of a stripper who’s done with the show and leaving with a pile of cash.

Buford doesn’t even look at him. Doesn’t see him as anything other than a commodity. A tool which has performed to expectations. Nothing more.

One of his associates lead Connor to Buford’s car, and Hank forces his eyes back on what’s going on. Buford seems delighted that Hank’s clearly distracted. Fuck him.

“Well. Now that that’s settled. Let’s deal, gentlemen.”  
  
The minute the money is counted and Buford turns to leave, Jeffrey gives the sign, and all hell breaks loose.

The setup was perfect and all officers were well placed, but, even so, shots were fired, several of Buford’s men were injured or killed, and two officers got mild injuries.

But once things settle back down? It’s all smooth sailing. Buford is led away in cuffs, along with at least a dozen others. Several other stings are being pulled off around town, gathering up his other associates and raiding his home and businesses.

It’s pitch perfect, several promotions are in the bag, the media is gonna be praising the DPD to the skies, and everyone can finally go home.

Except…

The back door of Buford’s car is open, and the backseat is empty.

“He must have done a runner as soon the shooting started. Smart kid,” Jeffrey says, patting Hank’s shoulder as he stares grief-stricken into the car.

Hank does make an attempt to find him, but even with the help of three other officers, Connor is nowhere to be found. He must have been not only fast as hell, but also clever, seeing as they don’t find his body anywhere, either. So he’s likely weaved his way past a ton of police officers, as well as Buford’s cronies, without anyone taking notice or getting himself killed. Pretty amazing. If only it wasn’t also so fucking devastating.

All Hank can hope for now is that Connor will make use of the care package, and that he’ll be okay.

_Please let him be okay_.

\- - -

It’s been almost a year since the sting.

Sumo has grown from a long-limbed pile of awkwardness into a military tank of a dog, who still sits on people he likes, to everyone’s great distress.

Hank made lieutenant, got put in charge of several high profile cases, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be perfectly happy with how his life is going.

But he isn’t.

Nothing’s felt quite right after that damn mission. Other people tell him that this is natural after being undercover for so long, and yeah, that’s probably part of it. But, god, Hank feels like he’s lost something. Something vital. And he knows exactly _what_.

For months after they slapped the cuffs on Buford, Hank kept seeing people on the street or on the news who looked like Connor, and every single time he’d get a swoop in his gut. Of worry, of hope. Of _emotion_.

Whatever else happened that week in the hotel room, Connor sure as hell carved himself a place in Hank’s soul.

Hank doesn’t delude himself into thinking Connor is feeling the same wherever he is now. He should be busy making a life for himself, somehow. Hopefully making use of what few resources Hank could offer him. Hank needs to move the fuck on with his life, because this is getting pathetic.

The dog park is empty this morning. After another night of not much sleep, Hank decided to drag a grumbling Sumo out of bed and into the cold at five am, just so he wouldn’t have to suffer alone. Not that Sumo suffers one bit when it comes right down to it, with his thick fur and tons of smells to investigate.

So Hank is left moping alone anyway, ass getting cold and damp from the frost-covered bench he unthinkingly chose to sit on. In his morose state he barely even notices that another dog owner enters the park. Their black lab bounds over to Sumo, and it’s immediately playtime.

At least someone’s having fun.

Boots crunch on the frozen ground next to the bench and then stop. God, Hank hopes they’re not angling for conversation, whoever they are, because he’s in no mood.

“Hello, Hank.”

The whole world goes upside down for a minute as Hank processes what he just heard. He turns his head slowly, sincerely worried that he’s finally lost it enough to hallucinate, but what he sees is nowhere near the mental image of that scared, damaged young man he’s been seeing in his dreams and his nightmares for the past year.

Connor looks like a fucking _accountant_. His slacks are pressed, his thick winter coat is open enough at the neck to reveal an actual tie, and his hair looks like he picked it from a barbershop poster from the 50s.

“Connor?” Hank asks, because he’s still not completely sure this isn’t some kind of fever dream.

“How’ve you been?” Connor asks, and Hank jumps up from the frozen bench to haul him into a hug.

“I’ve been fucking terrible, _jesus christ_ , you could’ve called, put me out of my damn misery!” he rants, even as he hugging Connor as close as humanly possible. Connor hugs him right back, and his shoulders shake. It’s unclear whether it’s from the cold, from a suppressed laugh or maybe crying, but, either way, Hank can relate.

“I didn’t know if… I guess I worried you wouldn’t want to see me.”

“That’s fair,” Hank says, not ready to stop the hug yet. “Not like I ever told you what I wanted.”

“You couldn’t. You weren’t really you.”

Hank huffs. “I was a lot more me than I fucking should have been.”

This time, the shake is definitely a laugh, and Connor finally pulls back. His cheeks and nose are pink, and he looks… he looks _happy_. It’s more than Hank can bear, frankly.

“What’s with the goofy outfit?” he asks, because when he’s struggling emotionally he can always be a bit of a prick.

“I was at a job interview.”

“As an insurance salesman?”

Connor laughs again, and Hank wants to _roll_ in it like Sumo in bird shit.

“No. Communications and delivery organizing assistant for the Stratford Corporation.”

“Mail runner?”

Connor rolls his eyes, and god, Hank loves that that’s a thing he does now, and it looks like he does it _a lot_. “I suppose you _could_ call it that, but let me enjoy the fancy job title for a minute, please.”

“Alright, alright.” They both fall quiet, and Hank allows himself a moment to just take Connor in the way he is now. Happier, healthier, _safer_. “Are you… okay? You know, in general?” Hank asks eventually. Because he has to know.

“Yeah. In general. It was rough for a while, but I’m… I’m good now. Better, anyway.” He turns to the dogs. “I found a friend. He was on the street, alone. Hungry and scared. All he needed was someone kind to give him a chance.”

He turns back to Hank, his brown eyes shining in the morning sun. Or maybe on their own, Hank can’t be sure. “All everyone needs is a little kindness.”

“There ain’t enough of it going around, that’s for sure.”

Connor isn’t put off by his deflection, and his hand is cold when it finds one of Hank’s, threading their fingers together. “You showed me… such incredible kindness when you had no reason to. And it gave me the strength I needed to realize that life could be different.”

“No, that wasn’t me,” Hank argues. “You had that spark all along. You would have found your way out of Buford’s grip eventually.”

“Maybe. But I still want to thank you. For the money, if nothing else.”

“Well. You’re welcome for that, I guess. My captain wasn’t super happy that I spent a chunk of the case budget on charity. But she forgave me eventually. All the good press means that maybe she can retire soon.”

Connor smiles, and rubs Hank’s hand with his thumb. “You should apply for her job then.”

“Nah, that’s more Jeffrey’s bag. My, uh… sidekick at Buford’s. He’s always been more ambitious than me. And he likes the politics. I really don’t.” He puts his other hand over Connor’s, because it really is distressingly cold. He needs some gloves. Hank wants to buy him ten pairs.

“What _do_ you like?” Connor asks. “If… if it’s alright with you, I’d really like to get to know you. Properly.”

“You shouldn’t. I’m way too old for you,” Hank says, but he can’t deny that those wiggly sensations in his gut are _butterflies_.

“ _Fuck_ that,” Connor says, shockingly blunt for once. “You don’t even know how old I am. And at this rate I don’t think I’ll tell you, either,” he adds in a snooty tone that Hank wants to both strangle him for and kiss him senseless.

“That’s fair,” Hank croaks. “That’s… totally fair.” He takes a minute to find his voice again. “I like basketball.”

“I like dogs,” Connor offers, and Hank has to burst out a laugh.

“Yeah. Yeah, I figured.”

It’s gonna be okay.

_They’re_ gonna be okay.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Just for the record, Connor is NOT underage in this, hence the lack of an underage tag. I tried to tag as thoroughly as I could, in order to make this as clear as possible without giving it all away, since so much of Hank's inner dialogue centers around this. But Connor is definitely not underage.


End file.
